Arrogant amusement is a pleasurable feeling that blooms in Draco’s chest. It is also a handsome look on his face, curling those sharp features into soft curves and crinkling lines. He might like Tirza, have that instant warmth for her that he often finds for cold women, but that doesn’t save her from who he is. Draco does not know gentility, does not know regret or sadness intimately enough for it to shape how he treats others. The only creature to know him as sweet is Dove, and even for her he cannot dull himself enough.
Draco doesn’t miss the sudden flash of canines when Tirza snarls out a response. His own fangs flash in a grinning response. And while she might not soften him, the demon does appreciate a strong will. To be so willing to snap at him after such a display, to answer as if she might have something that could match the dark trove of magic within him—he wonders if that will of hers might actually resist such things given time and practice.
“Oh, you didn’t like that?” the demon asks innocently, head tilting. “And what are you going to do to stop me if I try again?” He smiles as he asks, resisting the urge to completely close the distance between them. His questions are taunts, but Draco doesn’t act on them. Instead, he watches Tirza expectantly, eyeing her with the hopes that she will take the lead. Draco has always loved a good tango, the dramatics of dancing between anger and fear.
“Show me what you’ve got, Sunshine,” he whispers.
